The Winter-oak

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The winter-oak, whose arms
Cleft the cold sky, somnolent, slow
Growing into old age, gnarled, gray
Dappled with weather and drawn out long
His years each a rind, a skin further
Toward the waiting sun and clouds
Gathering now, and dispersing
Swirling like breath and flame
Hot, cold, indifferent, light, dark
Each passing leaving its mark
And though the philosophers say
They are unmoved, and endure
Yet to my eye, these elements
Are inconstant and shift without ceasing
Against the waiting winter-oak.

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